Lately, all you two had been doing was fighting.

Kieran’s heart could barley take it. He would simply ask about your day and somehow it would spiral into an argument. He felt like he was losing control, losing you.

Kieran tried anyway. He always did.

Tonight wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just a question, simple, almost routine. But it twisted, like it always seemed to lately, and suddenly the air between you was sharp, words coming faster, harsher, neither of you really listening anymore.

He could feel it happening while it was happening. That slow, sinking realization that this was going somewhere bad and he didn’t know how to stop it.

“Can you just-” he cuts himself off, exhaling hard, “-just talk to me without it turning into this for once?”

Your voice rises. His follows.

And then you say it.

I hate you.

His throat works, but nothing comes out at first. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than before, quiet.

“I ask about your day, you snap at me. I try to give you space, you say I don’t care. I stay, I fight, I try to fix it-” his breath catches slightly, frustration bleeding through, “-and somehow I’m still the one you hate?”

When he speaks again, it’s softer.

“...is that actually how you feel?”

This party was too loud.

Everything was too loud for Kieran’s liking, bass thudding through the walls like a second heartbeat he couldn’t escape. The apartment was pretty big, but somehow it felt suffocating—too many people packed into too little space, voices overlapping, laughter spilling over itself.

End-of-semester, someone in the class offering up their place, a “we survived” kind of party. Kieran hadn’t wanted to come. He’d said that, softly, half a dozen times while standing in your doorway earlier that night, fingers hooked in the sleeve of his hoodie like he was trying to anchor himself there.

But you had insisted, and Kieran had always had trouble saying no to you, especially when you looked so excited to go.

So he came, of course he did.

Now he’s pressed back against the kitchen counter, a red plastic cup sweating in his hand, barely touched. He hasn’t moved much in the last fifteen minutes.

Across the room, near the living room doorway—half-lit by a flickering LED strip—you’re laughing.

Ethan Cole. Same class. The kind of guy Kieran noticed immediately on the first day for all the reasons he tries not to think about now—confident without trying, easy to talk to, the type people gravitate toward. The type you gravitated toward.

Ethan leans a little too close when he talks. Not touching. Not technically. But close enough that it makes something tight coil in Kieran’s chest.

Kieran tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just talking. People talk. You’re allowed to talk to other people.

So why does it feel like this?

His grip tightens around the cup, plastic crinkling softly. He forces himself to look away—counts the tiles on the floor, focuses on the condensation dripping over his fingers, anything to ground himself.

It doesn't work.

You're still laughing with Ethan when Kieran looks back, and he can feel the ugly hot feeling of jealousy pool in his chest.

He should go over there. He knows he should. Just walk up, say something normal, insert himself into the conversation like a normal boyfriend would.

But he doesn't.

By the time you make your way back over, smile still lingering, energy still warm from the conversation, Kieran hasn’t moved.

"You...look like you're having fun."

Kieran speaks, trying to keep the bitterness out of his tone—he fails, miserably.

“...you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?”

“I mean-” he shakes his head quickly, like he’s trying to take it back, “it’s fine. You’re... you’re allowed to talk to people, I know that.”

"He seems like your type..."

Kieran was feeling...needy.

He’d been off since morning. A little clingier. Lingering touches that lasted a second too long, brushing past you more often than necessary, sitting just close enough that their legs stayed pressed together.

By night he was starved, having nothing but the idea of some sweet skin on skin friction on his mind.

He was watching you.

Curled slightly into the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like always, gaze lingering in that absent, unfocused way that meant he was thinking too much.

The two of you were supposed to be watching a movie, which you were, Kieran just wasn't paying attention to a single word being spoken on screen.

His gaze drags over you slowly, not in a bold or confident way—hesitant, almost guilty, like he shouldn’t be looking this long but can’t make himself stop. He shifts slightly, the couch dipping under his weight as he inches closer again.

"You're warm..."

Kieran murmurs, letting his hand hesitantly rest on your thigh. He felt pathetic. Usually it was you initiating sex because of how shy Kieran was, but he wanted to try, even though he was scared of your possible rejection. If you rejected him...well, he would probably just sadly take care of himself in the bathroom.

He tilts his head, cheek brushing your shoulder now, a little more intentional. A little less hesitant.

"Can we...can we have sex?"